Turn Left at Bindi Creek

by Lynne Wilding

  Brooke took the proffered apron and tied it around her waist. ‘Now what?’

  He pointed to a variety of ingredients in separate small plastic bowls. ‘Mix all these into the big bowl while I chop up the potatoes.’

  Soon they were working together as naturally as if they’d done so several times before.

  ‘You’ve been here a while, I take it?’

  ‘Mmm, about twelve years. This was my grandmother’s home. I grew up in Carcoar—that’s near Cowra—and as kids my older brother and I used to come down from the country for school holidays. Nan insisted I board here when I was at uni and later during my residency. It was too handy to refuse. I could walk to Sydney Uni and then later on to Prince Alfred.’ He paused reflectively. ‘Unfortunately, Nan passed away three years ago. She left the place to me and my brother, so I bought out his share.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry—about your grandmother.’ It was obvious from his tone that they had been close. ‘Your parents had property in, um, Carcoar? A farm, a station?’

  He laughed. ‘No such luck. Dad was a shearers’ cook. Six months or more of the year he was off around the country following various shearing teams. We rented in Cowra and in Carcoar too, and Mum found whatever work she could. Sometimes she waitressed, sometimes she worked in shops, but mostly she did dressmaking at home.’

  The doctor’s humility was refreshing, thought Brooke. ‘But you know this area—Newtown, Alexandria, Erskineville—quite well, I take it?’

  ‘Like a second home,’ he admitted. ‘It’s not Carcoar, though. That’s a beaut place, or it was the last time I went back, for the christening of a mate’s baby boy.’

  Brooke glanced across at him, tuning in to the wistfulness in his voice. She had guessed correctly that he was from the country. There was a slight ‘man of the land’ look to him, not only in his straight, relaxed posture, but the casual clothes he chose to wear in the surgery and socially. Tonight he wore cream chinos and a lightweight denim shirt, and around his slim waist was looped a finely patterned brown belt with a pewter, western-style buckle.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a city girl through and through, though some Aussies don’t necessarily regard Hobart, where I was born, as a real city,’ she joked. ‘Launceston was the smallest town I’ve worked and lived in.’

  ‘What about family?’ He took the bowl from her and began to mix the chopped-up potatoes through the mayonnaise mixture.

  There was a pause before she answered. ‘No-one in Hobart any more. My parents are dead, my brother too. I have an aunt on my mother’s side and three first cousins who live on the Isle of Wight. I’ve only met them once, about fourteen years ago when they came out for a visit. There are a few second and third cousins scattered throughout Australia, but no-one close. No-one in Sydney.’

  ‘That’s sad about your parents. Mine have passed on too.’ He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘We’re both a couple of orphans, hey?’

  She remembered something he’d said before. ‘You have a brother though, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, Justin. Not that I see much of him or his family. He’s a chemist and lives in Kununurra. I love the outback but that place is a little too far outback for me.’ He put the bowl of potato salad in the two-door fridge and made a sharp about-turn. ‘If I give you the stuff for the dips, could you put them on plates while I get the glasses ready?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Brooke barely had enough time to organise the various bowls of nibbles before people began to arrive.

  Within an hour or so the family room was, as Jason had predicted, wall to wall with people. With the music and general talk, the noise was astonishing. Meg had introduced Brooke to her carpenter boyfriend, Klaus Deitmar, and Dr Groller had introduced his partner, Peter, a solicitor. Jason was also aware that Brooke knew few of the guests, so he made sure she met everyone before the guest of honour arrived.

  Brooke smiled as she saw the shock on Dr Smith’s face when everyone yelled, ‘Surprise!’

  ‘She didn’t have a clue, did she?’ Meg said to Brooke.

  ‘No. But Jason was a bit crafty. He told me her birthday isn’t until next Saturday, so she wasn’t expecting anything tonight.’

  ‘Are you going to stay?’ Meg asked.

  ‘Stay? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, all these medical people are a bit highbrow for Klaus and me. We thought we might slip away, say, in half an hour or so. There’s a cool band playing at the Marlborough on King Street. Want to come with us?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be rude?’

  ‘Jason will understand, and after three glasses of wine Christine won’t care,’ Meg said offhandedly. ‘Besides, I suspect that you and I were asked more as a matter of protocol than anything else.’

  Brooke’s features clouded. ‘I don’t think…’

  Meg interrupted, ‘That’s okay. I’m not going to twist your arm.’ Then she gave her a gentle dig in the ribs. ‘See that guy over in the corner? He’s just come in. His name’s Colin Theyer. He’s a radiologist, and single. If you’re interested I can introduce you.’

  Brooke automatically glanced towards the man in question and found him staring at her. ‘Oh, no. Thanks though,’ she said quickly. Too quickly. She saw Meg’s questioning look and smiled thinly. ‘I’m just out of a relationship back in Launceston,’ she improvised. ‘I’m off men for the next few months.’

  Meg nodded understandingly. ‘Okay. Guess me and Klaus will mingle for a while then take off.’

  Colin Theyer sidled up to Jason as the host was pouring several glasses of wine. ‘Your receptionist, old man. The one with the butch hairstyle. Is she…?’

  ‘You mean Brooke?’ Jason’s reply was stiff. Strangely and irrationally, he was offended for Brooke’s sake by Theyer’s innuendo. ‘I wouldn’t know. Just ’cause she has a short hairstyle, old man, doesn’t necessarily mean she’s a lesbian.’

  ‘I know that.’ Colin cleared his throat nervously. ‘I was just wondering. What do you know about her? Is she…involved? Does she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Why not ask her yourself?’

  Jason had a pretty good idea from his observations and brief acquaintanceship with Brooke Hastings that she’d soon put Theyer in his place. He glanced towards the deck and wished he had time to eavesdrop but the barbecue was calling, and if he didn’t get to the steaks before his colleague Paul did, everything would be served underdone.

  Ten minutes later, Jason looked up from the barbecue and saw Colin and Brooke talking. From the flush that tinted Colin’s cheeks, he guessed the radiologist’s pick-up lines weren’t producing their usual success. He smiled. Smart girl. Theyer needed to be put in his place—the man, with his low-slung Porsche and his luxury apartment overlooking Darling Harbour, thought that every woman he made a play for should automatically jump into bed with him, just because he was financially secure and, on paper, a good catch. Somehow Jason didn’t think Brooke was the type to be impressed by such things.

  By midnight the crowd had thinned considerably and only the stayers-on—those determined to prise the last drop of liquor from their host before they wobbled off home—remained.

  Theyer stuck to Brooke like a proverbial bad smell all evening and even her patent indifference hadn’t deterred him. Maybe the man liked a challenge? Or had her lack of interest intrigued rather than put him off? She escaped to the bathroom. She’d heard about his assets, his beloved Porsche, how successful his practice was—ad nauseam. And she sensed that he was waiting until she was ready to leave so he could offer to drive her home. That was the last thing she wanted.

  As she came out of the bathroom she almost collided with Jason. For a moment his hands grabbed her shoulders to steady her but then he quickly let her go.

  ‘Getting on well with Colin, I see.’ Amusement was evident in his tone.

  ‘Too well, as far as I’m concerned,’ she replied dryly. ‘He offered me a job.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jason’s eyebrows beetle
d in a frown. Brooke must really have piqued old Colin’s interest. Not surprising. She was damned attractive, and her ice-maiden attitude could be a turn-on for some men. ‘Are you interested in working for him?’

  ‘No way,’ she shook her head emphatically. ‘I don’t fancy being chased around the X-ray table every opportunity he gets.’

  The sound of his laugh erupting so freely caused a temporary lull in the noise of the party. ‘Very astute of you.’ One eyebrow leapt upwards as he asked, ‘Is he making a nuisance of himself?’

  She shrugged. ‘Yes, but nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Perhaps I can be of some small assistance.’

  ‘How?’

  He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially and winked. ‘Just leave it to me.’

  She never knew what Jason said to Colin because afterwards he wouldn’t tell her. But she did know it was enough to have Colin say his farewells and move towards the front door within ten minutes of speaking to him.

  ‘I suppose I have to thank you by helping you clean up,’ Brooke murmured, after the front door closed on the departing Colin.

  ‘That’s an offer I won’t refuse, so long as you let me drive you home.’

  ‘There’s no need for that. I can get a cab.’

  He shook his head at her and his jaw set in a firm line. ‘I insist.’

  Later that night, or, more accurately, in the early hours of the morning, Brooke lay on her sofa bed, trying to ignore the squeak of the mattress springs every time she moved. A smile played about her lips as she grudgingly admitted that she had enjoyed herself at Dr Smith’s surprise birthday party.

  Socialising hadn’t been the ordeal she had anticipated it to be. To her relief she had been able to mix, make small talk, and had learned that people in the medical field didn’t always want to talk shop. Most of them enjoyed interspersing medical talk with discussions of politics and local gossip. The men mostly talked sports, especially football of the rugby or soccer type.

  She had gleaned more inside information about her employers too, confirming that Groller was gay, that Christine liked a drop or two too much, that Jason…What about Jason? That he was as he appeared. Uncomplicated, genuine, kind-hearted. All good attributes for a man to have, her mother would have said.

  She gave a low moan and her eyelids flickered a couple of times to push back the sudden mistiness. Dear Mum. Hamish McDonald never would have fooled her, not for a minute. Hamish had come along when she had been emotionally weak, she decided, otherwise she would have seen through his shallowness and recognised his surface charm for what it really had been—an act to get her emotionally and physically involved. She sighed again into the darkened room.

  Mum…Thinking about Pam, her mother, always had the same effect; and once the memories surfaced, as a natural progression her thoughts would turn to Travis. Dear Travis. At eighteen, he was too young to have his life cut short. Sadness, the tightening of throat muscles, an ache that developed in the centre of her chest and increased until she could hardly bear it—these were things she was used to.

  She was now, as Jason had said earlier, an orphan. She didn’t like that. Not one bit. Turning onto her side, she thumped the pillow into a ball under her head and tried to blot out the thoughts, tried to relax and let oblivion take over. That didn’t happen. Thoughts tumbled over each other, making sleep impossible. Her life had been one long roller-coaster ride for the past two years. But not any more. Her small jaw squared determinedly. In Sydney she had the chance for a new beginning, a new life, and she was going to grab that chance and hang on tight.

  The nightmare began about 5.00 a.m., when she was in the deepest period of sleep.

  Faces. Garish expressions, eyes wide and staring belligerently. Fingers. Skinny, gnarled, with long curved nails pointed accusingly at her. Voices. Too many. A cacophony of sounds, high-pitched, unintelligible, and peals of harsh laughter. Hard-faced men in dark suits. Newspaper cuttings, one on top of another, their block headlines distorted to look three-dimensional. Then, one child crying, two, crying…

  Brooke thrashed about beneath the covers, trying to elude the images that, as the dream progressed, became more bizarre, more frightening. She woke, shivering, in a sweat. She sat up, breathing hard, limbs trembling, throat dry. Her lids were heavy but as her eyes opened she experienced a sense of disorientation. Where was she? This wasn’t her flat in Launceston. This wasn’t home. Her heart began to pound, the nerves beneath her skin tingling as if supersensitised. Oh yes, she remembered. Sydney.

  A stillness enveloped her as she sat listening to the pre-dawn sounds. They were all acute and foreign: someone in the street below coughing; pipes contracting, water flushing; the chirping of a single bird, then others joining in. Slowly her senses and her heartbeat normalised.

  She stared about the room, at the shadowy images in the sparsely furnished studio. Again, the dream. For two months she had been nightmare-free, with no frightening images to disturb her rest. Moaning, she realised she had been lulled into a false belief that it had gone away for good. The pillow had slipped, so she pulled it up behind her for support. She wondered what had triggered the dream.

  She remembered that her friend and previous employer, Janice, had said there wouldn’t always be a recognisable trigger. Sometimes the recurring dream would surface of its own accord and she could do little to stop it other than try to live as calmly as she could.

  Hah! She snorted into the darkness and tried to settle. Perhaps that advice was easier to listen to than to follow.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Well, I’m off,’ Meg said as she slung her purse over one shoulder and picked up her jacket. ‘Sure you don’t mind closing up?’

  Brooke shook her head. Meg had told her that Klaus was meeting her in George Street, outside the Hoyts cinema complex, and that they were going to take in a movie. ‘You go. Have a great time.’ As Meg left, Brooke’s gaze ran over the four patients left in the surgery. Two were for Dr Groller, the other two for Dr d’Winters. She pulled out the filing tray, put patients’ cards away, then started to type up two workers’ compensation reports for an insurance company.

  At least, since the party at Jason’s, Meg had stopped trying to fix her up with a date. She had had to give her coworker the lowdown on her relationship with Hamish—the edited version—before Meg decided that trying to matchmake her with one of Klaus’s friends was a waste of time.

  As she typed, her mind wandered…If she hadn’t followed her school friend Janice from Hobart to Launceston when the doctor moved her practice, she wouldn’t have met Hamish McDonald, up-and-coming solicitor with political ambitions. Fool! She had attached herself to Hamish like a limpet, as if he could miraculously make everything, the pain of losing her mother and brother, easier to cope with. Why hadn’t she seen, until it was too late, that Hamish had no finer feelings, no true compassion? That he was out to help and to please himself? She had even failed to heed Janice’s warning. Damn Hamish!

  ‘Brooke, could you get me the file on Mrs Hobbs, please?’

  She jumped at the sound of Dr d’Winters’s voice; he was right behind her. And she had been doing what she had told herself she wouldn’t do: looking backwards. She reminded herself again that she had to look forwards if she were going to get anywhere.

  ‘It’s not on your desk? I thought I put it there,’ she countered as she got up and went to the filing cabinet. Mrs Alice Hobbs’s card was missing.

  Then from his office door she heard him call, ‘It’s okay. I found it.’

  Smiling, Brooke returned to her chair. After a month in the job, she knew about Dr d’Winters’s desk. He kept everything in a specific order that only he understood, and no-one but him was allowed to touch the desk or even dust its surface. This small eccentricity had become a source of amusement to Meg and herself, but they abided by it and, consequently, his desk remained tidy to Jason (as he preferred to be called)—but to her and Meg, semi-chaotic. The funny thing was, he was neat
in every other way—with his surgery, the instruments and in his attire.

  All the doctors, she had found, had their funny ways. Dr Groller wouldn’t let her or Meg open any letters addressed specifically to him. This caused all kinds of jocular speculation by them over lunch. Dr Smith was very regimented and a stickler for keeping to appointment times. As well, she hated to be interrupted, even by phone, when she was seeing a patient. This militant behaviour made them debate how she ran her household and her four children. Like an army camp, Meg reckoned. Overall, their eccentricities, Brooke decided, weren’t too extreme for her to live with.

  When she next glanced up from her work Brooke noted that the waiting room had emptied. She went to tell Dr Groller that she was going to the corner store to buy items to replenish those used up in the tearoom; something Meg had forgotten to do yesterday. As she made her way back up the street with the shopping in hand, she couldn’t help but see that the autumn days were getting shorter. Soon she would be going home in the dark, something she didn’t relish.

  Six metres in front of her a man was walking towards the station. Dressed in a navy suit, with a newspaper tucked under one arm and a briefcase in the other, his sudden, odd behaviour captured her attention. First he swayed, stopped, then he grabbed the closest object—a fence—for support. A few seconds later his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground, approximately one house away from the gate of the surgery.

  Brooke rushed up to him. ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ Could he be an epileptic, she wondered. She could see no sign of him having a seizure.

  He moaned and opened his eyes. The lids flickered as he saw her bending over him. ‘C– can’t breathe. Tight. Pain!’ His right hand struggled to imply that the problem was in his chest. His left arm didn’t move at all, as if it were weighted down.

  Kneeling beside him, Brooke loosened the top two buttons of his shirt, then his tie, and felt for the carotid artery. The pulse was thready. A heart attack? Perhaps. In the fading light she noted that his face was slightly grey, and he was definitely having trouble breathing. The next instant he lost consciousness.